Free Murder on a Hot Tin Roof by Amanda Matetsky Page A

salt and pepper shakers.

    “Hello, boys!” I said, baring my teeth in a huge Dinah Shore smile. “Enjoying the heat wave?”

    “Not much, ma’am,” the blond one said, in a sincere, awshucks kind of way. “Guess we better get used to it, though. Radio says it’s gonna last another week.”

    “I may not live that long,” I said.

    Blondie smiled; Blackie scowled.

    Okay, that was enough small talk. “Hey, do either of you guys know Gray Gordon?” I blurted. “He’s a busboy here, too. I was hoping to see him here today, but I guess this isn’t his shift. Do you know if he’ll be working tonight?”

    “No he won’t, ma’am,” Blondie said. “Not tonight or any other day or night.”

    The hair on the back of my neck bristled. Did Blondie know that Gray was dead? “Gee, why not?” I asked, flapping my lashes in imitation innocence. “Is he on vacation or something? Gosh, I hope he’s not sick!”

    Blondie smiled again and shook his head. “No, ma’am. He’s not sick. He just quit this job and took a better one. He’s in a play on Broadway now.”

    “What?!” I exclaimed, agape, agog, and aghast. “I don’t believe it! I knew he wanted to be an actor, but I never dreamed . . . Broadway, you say? Wow! When did this happen?”

    “About four months ago,” Blondie answered. “Sometime in March. Gray was supposed to work the lunch shift with me one day, but he marched in and quit instead. Right on the spot. Said he got a job as an understudy in a play on Broadway, and if the play was a hit, he wasn’t ever coming back. I haven’t laid eyes on him since.”

    “I guess the play was a hit,” I mused.

    “Sure was,” Blondie said. “ Cat on a Hot Tin Roof . You must’ve heard of it. Everybody’s talking about it . . . or at least whispering about it.”

    “Whispering?” I coaxed. “Why are they whispering?”

    Blondie gave me another smile, but this one was kind of crooked. “I haven’t seen the play myself, but a lot of the customers here have, and they’re all excited and hopped-up about it. They say it has something to do with a man being in love with another man, and—”

    “Shut your trap!” Blackie cut in, jabbing Blondie in the ribs with his elbow. “You shouldn’t be telling her what Stew-art’s customers do and say. It’s against the rules. And it’s none of her business.”

    Blondie stared at Blackie for a couple of seconds, then turned his eyes back to me. “He’s not very polite, ma’am, but he’s right. I’ve got a big mouth sometimes. But you don’t need me to tell you about Gray Gordon or the play he’s in. You can read all about it in today’s Times . They say the star of the show got sick last night, and Gray had to step in and play the lead, and he was so good he’s now the toast of the town. They put his picture in the paper and everything.”

    “Really?” I said. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll pick up a paper as soon as I leave. But before I go, may I ask if either one of you knows where Gray lives? I’m an old friend of his from Brooklyn, and I haven’t seen him in quite some time, and I sure would love to pay him a surprise visit and congratulate him on his success.” I wasn’t fishing for an address, you realize (the location of Gray’s apartment was permanently—and painfully—fixed in my brain). I was just trying to find out if either Blondie or Blackie was privy to that information.

    “Yeah, I know where he lives,” Blondie replied. “His pad is right down the—”

    Blackie jabbed him in the ribs again.

    There was no point in continuing my little charade. Blackie was determined to keep Blondie from revealing any significant information, and Abby was so restless she was having an all-out nervous breakdown (a detail I discovered when I glanced over in her direction and saw that her face was turning blue). I took a deep breath, thanked the busboys for their time, and made a beeline for the door.

    ABBY STARTED COMPLAINING